


ain't there something that money can't buy

by entitled



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Chewbacca is also a mercenary who sometimes paints with Leia, F/F, F/M, Finn is a mercenary, Han is an international smuggler, Heist AU, Jessika is a super typical cat burglar, Kylo Ren makes poor purchasing decisions, Leia is an art forger, Luke is a snake oil salesman and questionable psychic, Multi, Poe is a part-time getaway man and part-time stunt driver, Rey is a jewel thief, mild swearing, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entitled/pseuds/entitled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for the all-or-nothing heist. A cursed gemstone that may or may not actually be cursed. Fast cars and fancy dresses and hairpins for lock picking. Light fingers and canapés and Colombian emeralds. Cigarettes and Parisian balconies and Liberian diamond mines. And hopefully, a tropical island or several to be purchased at the end of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I Scene I

**Author's Note:**

> the heist au nobody asked for!

The Scavenger thinks of herself as a soloist. A single, expert performer putting on a show only seen after the fact. Really, her talent lies in the absence. Of herself, of fingerprints, of evidence, and as the climax: of the latest gleaming jewel swelling her pocket. She’s the best in the business. She has the lightest fingers and the cleanest record. But she’s a recluse, notoriously difficult to contact. However, if sought out with the right method, she can be found, and for the right price, she will do the… scavenging. 

The Scavenger lounges in a dark cafe with carpets the colour of stewed cherries. She cuts an insouciant figure - languid in her small chair, elbows pressed into the table and forearms drooping gently so her fingers hang like softening flowers over her demitasse. Pressing her tongue to her teeth, she swallows against the bitter coffee shadow that lingers in her mouth. 

Though it is July - the first Thursday - she sits inside. The late dusk sun throws tender purples and blues into the quiet, dim cafe, where they become bruises of light sucked up by the thirsty red. The restaurateur has not yet come around to light the little candles at the tables, and they sit as cold, waxy centrepieces. 

The Scavenger’s clientele vary greatly in their appearances and demands, though there’s few requests she’s turned down. No jewellery stores, for one. Nothing that is supposedly cursed. And nothing from personal collections of others in the Business. She likes her fingers not only clean, but well-attached. 

She can’t say she’s surprised when Luke enters the cafe, but she's not exactly unsurprised either. He smiles at her when his scanning gazes catches her form. As he makes a beeline towards her table, she does her very best not to move - not to think - Luke reads people better than she can even read herself.

“Luke.” She says. She doesn’t want to give him a smile, but decides a nod is neutral enough.

“Daughter.” As gently-spoken as ever, he doesn’t fool her for a second. She gestures for him to sit in the chair opposite her, though. 

“How did you find me?” She asks, as he drops into the seat. He tucks his prosthetic in his lap and rests his other hand on the table. “Did Unkar…” Luke shakes his head, and with the index finger of his flesh hand, reaches to tap his temple.

“I just knew.” She won't call bullshit on him, now’s not the time.

“What do you want?”

“I have a proposition.” He smiles. He’s trying to sell her something. She crosses her arms over her chest and sends him a skeptical grimace. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Sure it is, just like they all are. You never steal the same thing twice. 

“Who, what, when, where, why?” The Scavenger levels him a look that has Luke taking a deep breath before he begins.

“A team, I know you like to work alone, don’t cut me off, it’s rude. You, myself, and two guys I’ve already chosen.” Luke pauses to order a café au lait and shrugs when The Scavenger points out that it’s well past breakfast-time. “Rey, I don’t like the plain ones. Anyway, it’s FN and Black Leader, though I’m sure they’ll tell you more than just their callsigns once we rendezvous.” The Scavenger nods. She’s heard their work in passing, and was once in Barcelona at the same time as FN and found him unobtrusive and effective while she had been casing some doña’s stuffy manor. “As for where and when, our target is Kylo Ren’s mansion in Stuttgart during his annual summer soiree, in three weeks.” 

“Okay, no, Luke.” Rey lifts a hand to stop her father from continuing. “I’m not going to steal from someone like him, and besides, how did you even find his address?” 

“How do you think?” Luke responds with his ever gentle smile. “I know everything there is to know about these kinds of things.” 

“Go on.”

“Now for the what, which will be followed by the why,” Luke presents. “We will be taking the Starkiller, one of the largest cut red beryls in the world.” His smile grows. “Also apparently it’s cursed, which is why Han and Leia want it gone.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”


	2. Act I Scene II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be warned: this chapter contains shoddy spanish written by me, a non-fluent speaker. apologies.  
> also this chapter is not particularly long, but presents to you all: the lovely and desirable poe dameron <3 i'm still sort of setting the scene/scenes for this, and introducing all of the Team through their meetings with luke  
> hope you all enjoy!!!

Black Leader likes Argentina. Even if their Spanish sounds very Italian he can’t bring himself to mind when the people are so beautiful and the buildings so lovely. It reminds Poe of home, which he sees so infrequently nowadays. The winter so far here has been mild, and he needs little more than his beat-up leather jacket over his regular clothes when he goes out. 

He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of a cute red Fiat that smells of clean car and the kind of factory leather that seems almost a different fabric to his jacket. Waiting for Testor, and as usual, he spends his time smoking with the window down and staring. He invites the smell of meriendas into the car - the smell of coffee and churros and sugar and bodies halfway through their days. 

Niños follow their madres with a lightheartedness that he finds striking. Their madres lived their childhoods under the dictatorship, but the barrios ring with laughter and tolerably raffish poverty now, not gunshots and the kind of poverty that once hung like a shroud of terminal disease. 

Black Leader turns his head sharply when the passenger door of the Fiat clicks open and his face scrunches in confusion as a grey-bearded man slips into the car.

“La puerta estaba bloqueado.” The door was locked. Poe points out.

“I know.” The man gives him a gentle smile that oddly puts him even less at ease than having a stranger enter his locked car by simply pulling the handle.

“¿Sabes?” You know? 

“Yes,” again that strange smile and old eyes watching him. Poe’s fingers itched for the small beretta strapped under the dashboard. “I have a proposition for you, Black Leader.” 

“Dime.” Tell me. He flicks some of the gathered ash off the cigarette, onto the road.

“How would you like to play a dinner guest and be the getaway driver for a once-in-a-lifetime steal?” The man asks, though it sounds less like a question than an expectation of what Poe was to do.

“What is being stolen and how much do I get?” Poe switches to English, mind running from his grasp.

“The Starkiller,” the man says, curving a finger over his beard. “It’s an extraordinary jewel.” Poe nods, he’s worked on a few of those kinds of jobs. They're more stressful than the art steals he regularly helps Testor with. Speaking of which, she should be done fairly soon, unless she’s been caught up by wires or locks. No, impossible, she’s too good. The man lists a number, suddenly, and shunts all thoughts out of Poe’s head.

“Split… how many ways?” He manages to get out. The man grins, eyes gleaming in a way Black Leader can’t quite bring himself to trust. There’s a lack of clarity in his eyes - they are the colour of tender storm clouds hiding the sun. 

“No, that’s the cut for each member of the team.” 

“Santa María, madre de dios.” Poe finds himself struggling to form thoughts made of words. “You could buy yourself an island in the middle of the ocean with that money.”

“I already have one of those,” the man remarks thoughtfully. “Though I suppose another would be nice.” 

“Who are you?” Where’s Testor? And just how did this guy get into his locked car again?

“The Skywalker.” 

“So, are you going to say yes?” Testor asks from the backseat. Poe lets out a rather undignified yelp, jolting in his seat.

“When did you get in here?” He swivels around in the driver’s seat to ask her. She shrugs, flipping a section of long dark hair over her shoulder. She’s taken her beanie off and let her hair loose. 

“A while ago.” She pats the cardboard tube next to her. “We’re good to go.”

“Oh no, thank you, I don’t need a lift anywhere.” The Skywalker adds. “I’m just here to suggest what I have already suggested and be on my way.” He turns and gives Testor a remorseful look. “It’s a small team, and if we didn’t already have our thief, I’d invite you.” 

Testor gives him one of her smiles. One of the ones that crinkles and narrows her eyes and looks so, so genuine, but so, so isn’t. 

“Don’t worry about it, old man,” she says. “I don’t much have a taste for cursed things, anyway.” 

Dios, Poe is getting himself into something troublesome.

Black Leader is excited for the challenge.


	3. Act I Scene III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finn's first language is hausa in this fic

Sometimes FN is FN and sometimes he is Finn. Today, he thinks, he is Finn. So far today he’s been able to taste his breakfast: sunnily yolked eggs and yeasty, buttery toast (a good sign). Though he hasn’t been able to say much so far (a bad sign) he managed a short discourse with his cat (a good sign). 

Today he is wearing a deep purple suit, the colour of wine grapes (a good sign - Finn has banging fashion sense, FN does… not). He has paired them with glossy black shoes and a sleek Browning, holstered (not a sign of anything but common sense). 

There are five other people on the same carriage as he. Two possible threats. The Tube is a necessary evil. Both Finn and FN hate the crowds, the potential for injury from any direction, the random flow and crush of bodies, the smells, everything. Finn does, however, enjoy the motion and the speed with which he can get to places. 

At King’s Cross St. Pancras, the doors slide open and eight more people step into the carriage (including one possible threat), and two unlikely threats alight. Eleven in the carriage, three possible threats.

The latest possible threat, a lean and strong-looking but ageing man, takes the seat next to Finn, blocking him against the window-side. FN wants to stand up, to move away, but Finn tilts his head slightly and gives a polite smile. 

“Nice day, don’t you think?” The man asks or, rather, comments mildly, Finn can’t actually tell. Old people are weird like that.

“I guess.” He responds anyway. “If you like the rain.”

The day is grey and filled with heavy, limp clouds. Was like that yesterday, too. Seems like the clouds have decided to settle and stay a while. 

“I have a proposition for you, FN.” The man smiles through his beard.

FN is very suddenly on high-alert. His Browning presses against his side, a hard comfort. His fingers itch to pull it out, though at this point it would probably cause more trouble than it’s worth. The other two possible threats do not seem to be watching him, but rather a phone and a worn paperback respectively. 

“Who are you?”

“I am The Skywalker.” He says. FN’s heart beats out a rapid pattern, pumping him with adrenaline and making his palms sweat. They say The Skywalker is psychic and can read minds. “I’m organising a team to steal the Starkiller.”

“Who owns?” FN struggles to form words… to form English words. No doubt The Skywalker would understand anyway, with his abilities of mental invasion. 

“Kylo Ren,” The Skywalker says, FN’s head jerks back. 

“Ba na so.” I don’t like it.

“I know you’ve worked with him, which is why you will not make an appearance at Ren’s soiree when the heist will take place.”

“A’a.” No.

“We need you to do the investigation, to find out the layout of the building, to find where the Starkiller is kept, who will be attending, and more. You’ll get an equal cut, however.” The Skywalker speaks in a low, calming voice but FN is not calmed, especially not when The Skywalker mentions the value of the cut itself. “We need you as the brains of the operation. Not the brawn. We’ve got that already.”

“Ban gane ba.” I don’t understand. 

“The Scavenger will be the one who steals the jewel itself - they are the expert at it, obviously.” The Skywalker either seems not to notice or not to mind that FN seems only to be able to form words in Hausa, which increases Fn and Finn’s suspicion that he can definitely, totally read minds. “And Black Leader will be attending the soiree, also acting as our very efficient driver.” He’s heard of both of them, though knows more about Black Leader, as a competent driver who is kind to children, and a cunning combination of searing and charming with adults. 

“I… only… research?” Finn manages to get out, rubbing his palms on his beautiful purple suit. God, The Skywalker’s beard is scruffy. He needs a nice beard trimmer for his next birthday, or something. 

“Yes.” The train slows in its approach to Leicester Square. “This is my stop, FN. Let me know when you’ve decided.”

On the one hand, Kylo Ren. On the other hand, enough money to live independently wealthy for the next five lifetimes. A chance to be ruined and a chance to be redeemed all rolled into one little heist. The Skywalker stands and makes his way to the doorway.

“Yes!” Finn blurts out as the doors slide open. The Skywalker smiles at him, his unreadably clouded eyes crinkling, and he steps through the doors and disappears.


	4. Act I Scene IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is short but it has leia in it, therefore it is a superior chapter

“I have a proposition for you.” Luke rolls his eyes from where he lounges on the softest chaise in Leia’s home. It is a delightful seat, really, by one of the big windows, facing a very dark, green, German forest. The cool winter sun actually manages to provide a little warmth. It’s Luke’s favourite spot in the house. “Don’t roll your eyes at me.” Leia isn’t looking at him, but rather the beginnings of a rather convincing Schiele.

 

When most think of the General, they don’t think of a painter. They think of a hard-eyed, strong-worded leader, who runs terrifyingly efficient steals. Not a woman in frayed overalls covered in pale yellow paint. That’s exactly how Leia likes it. Luke rolls his eyes at her again.

 

_What do you want?_ he thinks at her. He feels her roll her eyes at him this time, though all he can see when he glances is the back of her head, her long greying hair curled into a bun.

 

“I’m worried about Ben.” Luke’s insides feel as though they’re rapidly beginning to curdle.

 

_You mean Kylo Ren._ Luke doesn’t mean for him to share the bitterness in his mind, but there’s also no use hiding it - hiding anything between the two of them is a futile exercise. He’d found that out the hard way trying to conceal a newborn from her.

 

_No,_ Leia snaps back heatedly. _I mean Ben. My son. The one I raised for eighteen years._ A subtle dig at him for his long-leashed parenting methods. He didn’t think she’d ever not be a little bit mad about him for Rey. It was an old argument anyway, with deeply cut grooves. One he could easily divert from nowadays.

 

“What are you worried about?” He asks, rubbing his eyes. “Which _one, single thing_ are you worrying about with him?”

 

“He’s purchased a jewel recently.” Luke has to restrain himself from scoffing out loud, but he knows Leia can sense his incredulity. “It’s cursed, Luke.” She turns briefly to pin him with a sad, angry glare. “It’s cursed and I can’t go in there and help him because he hates me. My boy hates me.”

 

_Leia,_ Luke reaches out softly, gentling her self-loathing, taking more of it for himself. What do you need?

 

“I need you to steal it from him. I need you to take it as far away as possible, destroy it if you can.” Her voice hitches, once. “I need the wretched thing out of his home. I need to do what I can for him, even if I can’t necessarily do it myself.” Ever a strategist, Leia always has a plan, even for the worst of situations. Even for Ren. 

 

“Send me the information and I’ll round up a team.” Luke stretches, pulling himself to a sitting position. “We’ll use this house as our base, though.” Leia’s thoughts begin trickling into his head. Rough floorplans, details of the gemstone (the Starkiller, something Luke never thought he’d have to deal with in his life), information about a soiree happening soon. He files them away as he tugs on his beard.

 

“Make sure they’re trustworthy, then.” She washes one of her brushes gently. “As trustworthy as any of them come in our line of work.”


	5. Act II Scene I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a massive crush on daisy ridley

Rey is the first of the team to arrive at Leia’s house, as per the text from Luke sent to her phone two days ago (at 3 in the morning when she was in the middle of a steal). She jitters her foot nervously as she stands before the massive front entrance of the manor house. It’s a cool evening and the lion’s-head door knocker was cold and sharp in her hands when she knocked.

She’s waiting now. She hasn’t seen Leia in more than ten years and she’s not sure if her aunt will recognise her. 

The doors open towards Rey with a rush of warm, golden air. And there’s Leia. She’s wearing a quilted vest over a simple grey outfit and looking for all the world the same woman Rey knew as a child. Older, yes. More grey, yes. But no less dignified, no less astute, no less Leia. It’s all she can do not to break down crying on the threshold.

“Rey.” 

“Auntie Leia.” She chokes out. Then, suddenly, she’s being pulled into a firm hug that pulls on the tightness in her chest. She clings to Leia, gasping. 

“Marissa will show you to your room, darling.” Leia says as they pull apart, though she clasps Rey’s hands tightly. Rey notices that while Leia’s hands are more worn than the last time she saw them, they’re still splotched with paint. “It’s the same as it always was, though there should be some clothes in the dresser that are a little more grown up.”

“Thank you,” Rey starts before she is cut off with a good-natured scoff.

“Don’t even try, young lady. We’ve missed you so much.” She squeezes Rey’s hands gently. “Dress in the nicest thing you can find up there.” She adds. “Tonight is all about appearances and I won’t have you looking like some lowly pickpocket, understand?” 

Rey smiles and releases her hands. She remembers Leia’s advice about first meetings with others in the Business. She’s carried those words with her all her career. Dressing well and looking good both serves as a confidence boost to affect overall performance positively, but also distracts others from looking to closely at the real person who may live beneath the silk and diamond. Rey needs the mask of the Scavenger to be immovable tonight. She won’t let her aunt down tonight in her own home. “I’ll do my very best.” 

“And that is all I ask.” With a quick wink, Leia nudges her in the direction of a pale, flaxen-haired maid - clearly Marissa.

“Lady Rey,” the maid gives a deferential nod to her. “I will show you to your rooms now if you wish. I am Marissa, your personal maid.”

“Thank you.” As far as Rey can tell, the staff at Alderaan manor now wear neat grey slacks and black silk shirts. A distinct difference from the black, frilled outfits Rey vaguely remembers from her childhood, which had been filled with scampering and climbing around the buildings long, lonely wings until her father had whisked her away. 

Marissa leads Rey up one of the thickly veined marble staircases and through several passageways to a door that Rey would be able to recognise with her eyes closed. Though it is for the most part a plain, dark-wood door, in the middle sits a distinctively carved sunburst, its tiny filaments of light borne out of the wood. 

“Shall I run you a bath, Lady?” 

“Thank you.” Rey murmurs as the maid pushes the door open and leads her inside. She heads directly to the bathroom, which Rey remembers is on the far, right side of the room. 

Her bedroom has not changed much. A different colour - it used to be a buttery yellow, but it now it is a more muted shade of periwinkle blue with white trimmings. Running her fingers along the heavy cream drapes hanging over her four-poster bed, Rey listens as the maid moves around in the bathroom, then the rush of water filling the bathtub. If it’s the same one, then it’ll be a claw-footed porcelain thing.

The modern dress of the serving staff here sits in contrast to the ancient fillings of the manor. Alderaan had always been like this. Even before Rey was able to have respect for some of the objects in the house she had been allowed to touch them. It wasn’t that her aunt and uncle didn’t treasure their collections, rather it was because they valued their items that they wanted them to be handled and seen and enjoyed. 

It was through Uncle Han sitting with her for hours, showing and explaining his goods to her that Rey began to understand the monetary value of such rare collectibles. And it was through watching Aunt Leia paint and listening to her explain what she was doing and why, that despite her lack of artistic prowess, Rey began to understand the cultural values of many of those same collectibles. 

Things have value which is not simply determined by the price people are willing to pay for it, but the intellectual value of the thing as well (Luke calls it the “spiritual value” and Rey rolls her eyes at him). A monetary figure symbolises the total significance of an object - from its rarity to its social relevance. Only when the true value of a thing is understood can a financial cost be determined, Rey thinks.

“Excuse me, Lady,” Marissa steps out of the bathroom where Rey can already smell hot, clean bathwater. “Your bath is ready.”

It’s the same bathtub. 

Rey has forgotten how good it feels to have someone else wash her hair. Languishing under a thick layer of bubbles, Rey closes her eyes as Marissa unties her three buns and folds warm water through her hair. The muscles from her toes to the ones in her scalp she doesn’t know how to consciously manipulate all seem to relax in the water. She could stay here forever, never stretch a finger or hide from cameras or pick locks again. She could live in this place of water and bubbles forever. 

“When you’re ready, Lady.” Rey cracks an eye open to see the maid holding out a thick white towel and discreetly averting her eyes. Ugh. She doesn’t want to get up. 

Pulling herself from the water, she shivers at the sudden chill on her skin and gratefully takes the towel. Marissa crosses the bathroom to fetch a robe, which Rey pulls on once she has finished drying off, letting her hair air dry as it hangs down her back. 

Rey heads back into her bedroom while Marissa tidies the bathroom, and opens the large wardrobe across from the foot of her bed. Inside sits a neat row of expensive-looking dresses. 

“Marissa?” She calls.

“Yes, Lady?” Marissa emerges from the bathroom with Rey’s discarded towel in her arms. 

“Are the Madagascan purple sapphire earrings still in my jewellery box?” She asks as she strokes the side of a gorgeous dress made of semi-sheer black netting covered in purple flowers. She hears her maid shuffling around on the other side of the room. 

“They are here, Lady, would you like to wear them tonight?” Rey hums her approval and slides the purple dress off of its hanger. 

“Help me dress, would you please.” Rey pulls off her robe and shakes her hair. Working silently, Marissa transforms Rey from damp and naked to severely well put-together in a matter of moments. 

“How would you like your hair done, Lady Rey?” 

“Same as it was before.” The dress sits high up her neck. Hair or a necklace hanging down would distract from the detailing of the appliqué. 

“Of course Lady.” 

At last she is dressed and styled. The sapphires are heavy in her ears and her shoes pinch a little, but she knows she looks her absolute best and feels ready to meet strangers. 

As Marissa leads her from her room, Rey can hear unfamiliar voices. She can also hear Aunt Leia’s laugh and Uncle Han’s rumbling tones. 

Descending the staircase she sees that Luke has also arrived, alongside two other men. They all turn to look at her, champagne flutes collectively slacking in their grips. The one with dark skin and a handsome face she knows is FN. The other man - who has dark hair and dark eyes and dark lashes - she has never met, but knows he must be the Black Leader. 

“Careful with your champagne,” she says to the group as she reaches the foot of the staircase, knowing that she looks better than they could have imagined and that Leia is proud of her. “That’s antique Waterford crystal you’ve got there.” Out of the corner of her eye she sees Uncle Han grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> key's evening dress is basically this: http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2015/12/27/14/2FA19D2400000578-0-image-m-54_1451227992983.jpg


End file.
